Clayton. You spoke to him?
Hoover. Called to him.
Clayton. Called?
Hoover. Yes—I was forty feet away.
Clayton. Had your nerve with you.
Hoover. The girl dropped something—I thought it was a fan.
Clayton. Well?
Hoover. ’Twasn’t—but that’s why I called De Lota.
Clayton. How do you know it wasn’t?